I should’ve died at 21,

far from home,

sweating out a tropical disease.

 

I should’ve died at 22,

walking home alone

drunk, down that dark alleyway.

 

I should’ve died at 23,

racing along the freeway,

a passenger to whiskey and gasoline.

 

And if I tally up

all the times I should’ve died,

it seems the reaper and I are friends.

 

Because I’ve come to realize,

that he must’ve let me stay

until I had you by my side.